The Way Back to You
by Pereybere
Summary: Will take place during the new miniseries - why did Mulder and Scully break up? How will they find their way back to each other again? Big time MSR.
1. Chapter 1

**Title** : The Way Back to You

 **Rating** : NC-17 / M – This chapter is a T, but it will definitely become an M rated story in the coming chapters.

 **Keywords** : MSR

 **Spoilers** : Probably loads, so if you haven't watched the whole series – including the miniseries, avoid!

 **Disclaimer** : It goes without saying that I do not own The X-Files. No infringement intended.

 **Author's Notes:** It's been a very long time since I sat down to write an X-Files fanfiction. Looking back on my life (I'm 30 now), I spent almost all of my adolescence writing X-Files fanfic, which I published on Gossamer. Then as an adult I found , and started writing here. When I wrote Six Degrees of Requiem, my most favourited and read X-Files story, I was only 20 years old. It's remarkable how much time has passed. I haven't written fic for any fandom in six years. I left the fanfic world to become a paid writer for a publisher of erotica. For a long time I thought the fanfiction muse had left me forever. Turns out, all it took was the promise of a reboot, some sneaky little clips of Mulder and Scully and suddenly, I was right back where I used to be. I hope anyone reading this – old fans or new – will enjoy it. MSR forever!

When she'd left, there'd been no fight; no raised voices, no volleying of below-the-belt insults. When she'd packed her belongings, Dana Scully had done so with quiet resignation, carefully folding her clothes into piles. She hadn't pulled garments from their shared closet with frantic rage, or smashed knickknacks in a fit of anger. This was, in reflection, perhaps the saddest thing of all; even the passion was gone.

Scully found him in his office, surrounded by the remnants of two decades worth of obsession; files, newspaper clippings, posters, letters. In contrast to her meticulous order, Mulder was as haphazard and frenetic as ever. Outside the walls of the house, time had moved on. Inside, it felt as though they'd spent almost fifteen years on the event horizon of a black-hole, forever hovering where time stood still. It surprised her, sometimes, when she travelled into the city and discovered how different life was, now. She never quite felt as though she belonged in civilization anymore.

"Hey…" she said, gently touching her knuckles to the door.

Mulder lifted his head from a file spread across his desk. "Hey," he replied, his voice quiet with resignation. "Have you packed?" Dark eyes shifted beyond to where her suitcases sat, side-by-side, next to the door. She knew she didn't imagine the momentary flicker of regret that crossed his still-handsome features. "I'll help you to the car," he said, pushing his chair back.

Long buried tendencies of independence almost resurfaced, as she opened her mouth to refuse his help. She could carry her own bags – she had packed them and lugged them downstairs, after all. Her stomach clenched in a knot of resentment; would their parting even be necessary if Mulder had shown the same chivalry, just once, before now? Would her misery have become quite so deep rooted, if he'd only noticed?

"Will you call me, when you get settled?" Mulder asked, hefting her cases with both hands.

"Of course I will," Scully replied, turning up the collar on her winter coat. The skies overhead were laden with snow; a thick, threatening colour of pewter. When she exhaled, a deep breath of knotted anxiousness, the air condensed into an dense white cloud. Though her leather gloves, Scully's fingers were cold. Mulder, wearing only an olive-green t-shirt and jeans, appeared to be immune to the biting chill. "You should go inside," Scully said, at a loss for anything more significant to say.

It wasn't that there was nothing she wanted to tell him; there was. Thousands of words, long sentences of explanation, but face to face with him, she found herself uncharacteristically inarticulate. The words she'd rehearsed to defend her choices were pitiful, as she prepared to say them. She was choked with tears, a pain quite literally spreading across her chest. This was it. She was leaving him, and their relationship, behind.

Mulder stepped closer. Reaching out, he brushed a tendril of hair away from her cheek. The intensity of his gaze reminded her of all the times before; when he'd first attempted to kiss her in the hallway of his apartment building, all those years ago. When he had kissed her as they welcomed the dawn of a new millennium together. When he'd first made love to her, in those last seconds before he reached a shuddering climax, how he'd looked into her eyes – how he hadn't needed to say I love you, because every word, every emotion, every unspoken sentiment was right there.

"I don't blame you, Scully," he said at last, stroking his thumb across the arch of her cheekbone, to the outside corner of her eye where a single tear had formed. "I'm sorry," Mulder told her. "For all the times my obsessive neuroses have hurt you." She clutched his hand against her cheek, closing her eyes against the onslaught of tears threatening to fall. "Please don't cry. Not anymore." She was in his arms then, clinging to the familiarity of his body with desperate, soul-crushing yearning. She sobbed against him, praying that he would ask her to stay… praying that he wouldn't. The circle was endless, complicated in its simplicity. She wanted to go. She didn't want to go. She wanted to stay. She needed to escape. Endless uncertainty, never knowing what the right choice was.

"I love you," she murmured against the soft, well-worn fabric of his t-shirt. She breathed in his scent, the familiar woodsy scent of him. He'd been outside today, meandering through the woods, reflecting upon some mystery or another; she could smell the outdoors on him. Any other day, she would have undressed him, led him to bed, let him work out the frustrations of his mind upon her body; a momentary respite for them both.

"I know," he replied, his voice muffled against her hair. "I love you too, Scully. Always." His hand was on her neck then, his lips touching upon her own for the briefest of seconds – tender, gentle… goodbye. "Call me," he said.

She withdrew from his embrace, her body aching; the pain of leaving him mixed with the deep, ever present sexual arousal that invariably flared inside her when they touched. Scully fished in her coat pocket for her car keys. Her feet crunched on the stony gravel, and Mulder stepped back, edging towards the porch where he stood, watching her – silent.

Over the roof of the car, she looked at him. "Why don't you want me to stay?" she asked at last, voicing the question she hadn't been able to vanquish from her mind. What she really wanted to say was why aren't you begging me not to go? Why do you want to be alone so fucking badly? She rarely swore at him, even when they fought. In truth, they rarely fought either – which was probably why her discontent had festered, fermenting into this toxic blend of rotten emotions.

"Scully…" Mulder said, shaking his head slowly. He crossed the space between them again, taking wide, urgent strides. "You can't possibly know how much I want you to stay," he said, taking both her hands in his. She wished she wasn't wearing the leather gloves, yearned to feel his skin on hers. "But you aren't happy here. More than anything else, Scully, I want you to be happy." He bent his head, peering into her eyes, imploring upon her to understand. "This is who I am; obsessive, thoughtless, neurotic and I know this is my fault." His hands squeezed hers one final time. "That's why I'm not asking you to stay… because you of all people, deserve to be happy."

She mourned the loss of his touch when he stepped away again, this time climbing onto the porch – ever further away. "I'll see you," she said, pulling her eyes away from him. Inside the car, she fumed in silence. So this was the time he picked to be selfless? Now? After all the many years of thoughtlessness, Fox Mulder decided on altruism on the very day she chose to leave? Her tires spat gravel as she pressed her foot to the gas and sped away from the house, jittery with anger, pained with melancholy.

"Fuck you, Mulder," she said out loud, refusing to look in the rearview mirror. Her stubbornness lasted only two miles along the deserted road. She never had mastered how to be angry at him for very long – instead, she felt a profound sense of loss. The relationship that she'd been a part of for a very long time, was over. Scully wasn't sure she was ready to be alone, again. Not just alone… but without Fox Mulder; partner, best friend, lover.

Scully could pinpoint exactly when things began to fall apart; January 2010. Mulder became distracted again, holed up inside his office for entire days, reading files, scouring the internet and researching paranormal phenomena. His eidetic memory was a curse, caused him to toss restlessly when he finally did come to bed – sometimes in the middle of the night. He was dismissive of her concerns, resentful of her mollycoddling. Days of this behavior became weeks, then months and before either of them could comprehend it, there was an almighty chasm between them. The only constant was the sex, frantic and passionate, then long and tender. Between the sheets, he seemed to revere… almost worship her. Then, when she was sated and exhausted, Mulder would slip from their bed and return to his cluttered office – as though making love to her somehow rejuvenated him. Like caffeine, or cocaine.

God, the sex was breathtaking – but it wasn't enough. They hadn't shared a meal in months, she couldn't remember the last meaningful conversation they'd had together. It might have been some kind of midlife crisis, but his inability to express himself emotionally left Scully feeling cold and a little used. Yes, been more than willing when his hands wandered over her body and his rigid cock pressed against her backside, but there had to be more. There had to be. They just didn't laugh anymore. Or talk. Nothing but breathless, rampant sex.

The snow began, light and wistful at first, blowing across her windshield and melting almost immediately. Within ten minutes a blizzard had descended; sheets of thick, opaque snow blocked the path of her car and Scully's concentration focused entirely on navigating her car out of the countryside, and into the city where she'd temporary rented an apartment.

In hindsight, if it hadn't snowed that night, she might have returned back to the house, to Mulder, to the familiar warmth of his embrace. As it happened, the snow came heavier than it had in years, making any attempt at returning all but impossible… and by the time the weather thawed, and her resentment cooled from a fierce boil to a low simmer, their temporary separation had somehow become permanent – and just like that, at the command of an untimely snowstorm, their seventeen year romance had ended.

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you have enjoyed this first chapter and that you'll review and come back for the chapters to follow!**

 **If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy reading Six Degrees of Requiem, which is my take on how Mulder and Scully entered an intimate relationship. The six chapters take place from All Things to Requiem.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title** : The Way Back to You

 **Rating** : NC-17 / M – This chapter is a T, but it will definitely become an M rated story in the coming chapters.

 **Keywords** : MSR

 **Spoilers** : Probably loads, so if you haven't watched the whole series – including the miniseries, avoid!

 **Disclaimer** : It goes without saying that I do not own The X-Files. No infringement intended.

 **Author's Notes:** Thanks to everyone who read the first chapter. I want to let you know that when this story becomes MA rated, I will be uploading the unedited versions to a blog page I have made especially for this – called .com. It's outrageous that this website still doesn't allow for MA material, so for those of you who would enjoy explicit MSR, that's where you'll find it.

Chapter Two

 _8.45pm_

"It's me."

Standard greeting, and had been for twenty three years. In the beginning, _way back_ , she had sometimes been tempted to say ' _Who_?' just to irritate him – because God knew, Fox Mulder irritated her plenty. Then, as time marched on, she found herself reciprocating and suddenly _It's me_ became almost like a pet-name. It was old and familiar, comfortable. Now, as she perched on the arm of her couch, Scully found that her heart hurt a little.

"Hey," she replied, smoothing her hand over the busy pattern of her rented furniture. She hated this couch, and the matching armchair. She hated the creaky pipes of her apartment, the sex-mad noisy next door neighbors and their frantic late-night activities. She missed the countryside. And Mulder. Especially Mulder. "How are you?" She hadn't spoken to him in two weeks, the longest yet. Every time she considered picking up the phone, she questioned the sanity of it; hadn't they broken up? What good could come of reopening a healing wound?

"I'm fine. Good." His voice was uncertain, filling her with remorse and guilt. "Listen, I was going through some things in the house and you've left some stuff here." There was painfully tight restraint in his tone, as though he were talking to an old acquaintance and not the woman he'd known for twenty-odd years, and been intimate with for fifteen. It troubled her to realize just how much their relationship had unraveled – unbearably so. "Your Will," Mulder continued. "Deeds to your mother's house and a pair of diamond earrings. I didn't even know you had these."

The words were out of her mouth before she had a moment to contemplate or restrain them. "They're my grandmother's. You might have noticed if you spent a little less time in your office." She pressed her fingers to her lips, smothering whatever other words she might have added to the already thorny retort. "I'm sorry, Mulder." Scully had promised herself she wouldn't become bitter. "Thanks for reminding me. I'll pick them up," she said, anxious at the thought of visiting the house – her home for more than a decade.

"I'm actually in your neighborhood," Mulder replied, surprising her. "I can drop them off if you're free." Scully found herself looking at her little apartment with new eyes; the eyes of someone who wasn't used to the worn furniture, the creaky floorboards, the draughty window. She didn't want Mulder to come here and pity her. "Scully?"

"Oh, yeah, I'll be here." In the minutes following their phone call, Scully made a frantic attempt at prettying up the apartment; she tossed a throw across the couch, plumped pillows, sprayed spring rose scented air freshener through the rooms, and adjusted the drapes. It made little difference to the overall effect; the apartment was old and tired – and it showed. Until now, it hadn't really concerned her. She spent almost all of her time at the hospital – the hours she spent in surgery gave her more important things to consider than the décor of her apartment. Some part of her always thought of this place as a temporary stop-off anyway.

Scully checked her reflection in the mirror. She wasn't long home from a fourteen hour shift and every minute of those grueling hours were etched across her face. The make-up she'd applied at six thirty that morning had long since worn off. Her skin was pallid with exhaustion, her eyes dim, her hair pulled into a severe ponytail at the nape of her neck. She smelled of hospital; pungent antiseptic and the detergent used to wash her scrubs.

Mulder's knock was as familiar as his telephone greeting. She waited three beats before crossing the living room and opening the door to him. Immediately, she cursed how good he looked in comparison to her ashen tiredness. He wore black jeans and a charcoal grey shirt, sleeves rolled up. Scully noticed immediately that he'd cut his hair; the disheveled hobo look was gone – and the realization was a sucker punch to her chest; was he doing better _without_ her?

"Hey, come in." She stepped back, gauging his expression as he entered her apartment. Whatever he thought, Mulder wore a mask of indifference. He adjusted a brown paper bag from one arm to the other, waiting until Scully closed and locked the door before foisting her belongings on her. "Thanks," she replied, searching through a catalogue of conversational topics for _something_ more to say. "You look really good," was what her mouth settled on.

Mulder looked at her then, the eyes of a profiler, someone who could read every nuance of a person. For the last few years it seemed as though Mulder had forgotten to look closely at the woman who shared his bed. Tonight, Scully remembered just how discomfiting it could be when he leveled the full weight of his scrutiny upon her. "You look tired," he said at last, his brow furrowing as he considered her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Scully replied quickly.

"Are you?" Mulder countered, tilting his head, his dark eyes never leaving hers. She stared back, daring him to pry deeper into the ultimate misery of her life.

"We lost a patient today," she said at last, her mind calling up the image of the blood – _so much blood_ , and the operating staff frantic in their attempts to revive the small child on their table. The Attending Surgeon, Dr. Miller, had his hand in the child's chest cavity, the monitors were screaming and in the blink of an eye Scully came to the realization there was no other eventuality for their patient; the little girl was dead – and she hadn't been able to lift the cloud from her head. "Four years old. This tiny, fragile creature with a congenial heart defect. This was supposed to be the day she was saved from a life of endless hospital appointments." Scully didn't know why she was telling Mulder at all. She supposed, in the absence of anyone else _to tell_ , he was the next logical option. And he was right there, standing before her, with his attention focused on nothing but her for the first time in longer than she could remember.

"I'm sorry," he told her, reaching out to touch her elbow; a small gesture of comfort – yet the touch was somehow altogether disconnected, reminding her of how vast the chasm was between them, now.

"Yeah," she replied, sobering. "It never gets any easier." The strength was back in her voice, hard as iron. Inside, every part of her seemed to ache – from the arches of her feet to the base of her back, all the way to her heart, which never seemed to heal at all. Epsom salts would take care of the other pains, but the ache she felt in looking at Mulder was forever. "Would you like some coffee?"

Mulder hesitated, still standing just inside her apartment – close to the door, to an exit point. "Yeah, okay." He consulted his watch for a fleeting moment and Scully found herself wondering whether he had other plans. She couldn't imagine Fox Mulder going on a date, unless he'd somehow pulled himself away from the unexplained for long enough to delve into the other murky mysteries of the universe; online dating. The very thought of him trawling some website for a companion made Scully's innards burn with resentment.

"Do you have somewhere to be?" she asked, her voice laced with the very bitterness she'd sworn to avoid.

Mulder looked surprised. "No," he said, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. He looked younger then, vulnerable almost. She regretted her hastiness at once. "I was wondering how long you'd been at work, today, actually." He followed her towards the kitchen, where last night's dinner remnants remained on the countertop; takeout cartons of half eaten kung po chicken and rice.

Scully swept her arm across the counter, brushing the cartons into the trash. "Sorry about the mess," she said, running a damp cloth over the surface. Sticky sauce refused to budge. "My housekeeping skills leave a lot to be desired, recently." She managed laundry, some tidying and the occasional run of a vacuum cleaner across the rugs.

"Not a single peony to be seen anywhere," Mulder joked, his lips pulling into a jesting smile. "What has happened to you, Scully?" She thought of all the times she tried to brighten their bleak little world with bunches of flowers; peonies, roses, lilies. The house – _their house_ – was the place she'd called home for so long, it was difficult to adapt to this little apartment. She had no heart for it.

"Will you put this in my bedroom, I'll make coffee." She returned the paper bag to his arms, unwilling to delve into the topic of _what had happened_ to her. Scully had barely come to understand it herself – she might have said she was 'depressed' but she continued to function – and sometimes smile. Sometimes, if something were particularly humorous, she could laugh, too. The world wasn't always entirely bleak. There were days when she was all right, when life felt as though it were manageable. Those were the days she took time to throw out dinner cartons or tidying the living room before bedtime.

Mulder returned to the kitchen and somehow, inexplicably, the mood had shifted. His features were darkened, as though he were no longer interested in pretending things were okay. His jaw was tight and something burned hotly in his eyes. "I left the bag on your bedside cabinet," his voice was a low, tight growl. Scully placed two mugs on the counter and turned to look at him, frowning at the sudden change in his behavior. "I had to move your… belongings… to make space for it."

His words were weighty, and it took Scully only two or three seconds to realize what Mulder meant; her vibrator – a thick shafted, neon pink sex toy that pulsed at incredible speeds. She'd bought it a month ago when, in the middle of the night she'd been desperate with loneliness. She missed sex, missed Mulder's hands upon her, the way he could make her come with his precise, knowing touches. She used the vibrator most nights, closing her eyes as she pictured him inside her, the urgent pistoning of his hips as he filled her.

Her face burned hotly. "I forgot to put it away." There was never anyone else here, no one to be neat and cautious for. "It's smaller than you." She didn't know why she said it, could not fathom why her brain made the connection between a silicone cock and Mulder's. There was no comparison, no question about which was better. "God," she pressed her fingertips to her fevered cheeks and turned away from him. "This is humiliating."

"It is for me too," Mulder replied from the doorway, his voice thick. "Since you left, I've consoled myself with knowing for all the _many_ things I did wrong, satisfying you wasn't one of them." He glanced over his shoulder towards her bedroom. "I didn't realize I could be replaced for $29.99 and a couple of batteries."

Scully felt lightheaded with embarrassment. She spun to face him. "How can you say that, Mulder? How can you even _think_ it?" Angry, she crossed the kitchen in four strides. Toe-to-toe, she planted her hands on her hips and was momentarily struck by the imagery of them; fiery, annoyed with one and other, gazes blazing. She thought of all the arguments they shared in his dusty basement office – the tit-for-tat, the debates and eventually, the veiled insults that would inevitably cause them to end up in bed together. God, she missed those days. When Mulder burned with unrestrained passion and determination, when his obsession was productive instead of soul destroying. They had purpose and intent. Sometimes that purpose spilled over into energetic sessions between the sheets.

"What do you expect, Scully? You have a dildo in your bedroom." She thought about telling him that dildos didn't vibrate, something she'd learned during an extensive research session online.

"Because you're not here!" she snapped instead, lifting her hand in frustration. "Are you telling me you haven't jerked off once since I left? I'd be surprised if you didn't have YouPorn bookmarked on your laptop." He had, after all, been something of a pornography addict in the old days. It started with Scully finding tapes in the VCR with long-legged blondes with pneumatic tits. She hated those women. Then, when the movies depicted redheads with modest breasts, she hated them even more – they were her, without ever really being her. They were fantasies she didn't think she could ever live up to. Now she wondered what he might be streaming in the late of night with a reliable internet connection and HD viewing.

Mulder stepped back from her. "I haven't watched porn," he insisted hotly. "Yes, I've jerked off. Every fucking night because you left, Scully. You _left_." His eyes were impenetrably dark, boring into hers. She hated how he aroused her, even now. Picturing him in their once-shared bed, cock in his hand, she felt the familiar pulse of arousal between her thighs.

"Mulder—"

"It just pisses me off that you left me because you'd rather pleasure yourself."

"That's not true, and it's not even on point. Leaving was _nothing_ to do with sex." She thought for the millionth time that the sex was the one good thing about their relationship. "And you _know_ it." She squared her shoulders, daring him to contradict her, knowing he couldn't. Mulder knew perfectly well how her body responded to him – how he pleasured her. She was vocal enough about it; the house was acres away from another residence, his name had often echoed through their little abode. Two nights before she'd left, in fact.

"Yeah, you were kind enough to throw me a goodbye fuck," Mulder remarked, as though reading her mind.

Scully bristled. "Oh, fuck you, Mulder. How dare you." He seemed wholly unaffected by her anger, almost as though he relished in it. His lips quirked in a cruel smirk and she wondered if he wanted her to slap him. Her fingers curled instinctively, her blood pumping hotly through her veins. Instead of lashing out, she felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes. How could he, after all his time, make her feel so cheap? "Mulder, you should go," she said quietly, taking a step away from him.

Where had his sudden madness come from, anyway? He'd been resigned and contrite when she'd left – accepting of the reality, maybe even in agreement at just how bad things had gotten between them.

He nodded once in acquiescence. "You know, Scully," he said, hesitating for a moment. "I thought you'd come back." Mulder tapped his knuckles against the door frame, his eyes roving her face. "I understand your reasons for leaving, but I didn't think it would be permanent." He smiled sadly, shaking his head. "I thought we'd be together forever."

Taking his leave, Mulder stepped out of the kitchen and out of sight. Scully was momentarily contrite, heavy with guilt. Then in an instant, she became livid with fury. Dropping her arms, she chased after him, racing through the apartment to where he stood, hand on the door knob. " _You_ thought we'd be together forever? For what? So you could have someone to clean your house, cook your meals, wash your laundry and fuck you whenever you got bored?" He turned the knob, releasing the door. Scully's palm came down on the wood panel, slamming the door shut again.

"That's not what I said," Mulder replied, suddenly so calm she wanted to scream. It might have been the emotions she felt at losing her patient, the gravity of two grieving parents mourning the loss of their daughter, her sense of absolute failure in every single aspect of life, but all at once, Dana Scully was a roaring fiery whirlwind.

"Oh no? What did you say then, Mulder? Because for a _very long time_ you said _nothing_." She stood on the tips of her toes, never more frustrated by their height difference. "Loneliness and solitude might work for you, but it doesn't work for me." Her fingers were beginning to hurt from the effort of holding the door closed. Finally, Mulder's hand dropped from the knob and his shoulders sagged.

"Is this your solution, then? Seems pretty fucking solitary to me." They'd never swore so much at one and other, not even in their most heated disagreements. When she realized how much she _liked_ this sudden fire in Fox Mulder, Scully felt disgust at herself. Had she really been so deprived of his emotion that she would relish his anger, his unexpected display of passion. "Fourteen hour days, eating takeout alone, getting yourself off with a rubber cock." He feigned a beatific smile, mocking her. "Good choice, Scully."

"You can be such a bastard sometimes, Mulder." She meant it, and had probably never loved him more than she did at that moment. She wanted to go home to him, wanted to sink into the warmth of his embrace and remember what it felt like to be secure, content. Instead, she shook her head with a disgust she didn't really feel.

The door opened. "I want you to come home, Scully. If time is what you need, take all the time you want. Just know, there's nothing that _I_ could buy online to replace you."

Then he was gone, easing the door shut quietly behind him. He was right; she'd never felt more alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title** : The Way Back to You

 **Rating** : Eventually NC-17. I am a sucker for a dirty ole story.

 **Category** : MSR, Angst

 **Disclaimer** : The characters herein belong to Chris Carter.

 **Spoilers** : Anything in the series is fair game, snippets of episodes could appear at any time.

 **Feedback** : I _looooooove_ feedback. I thrive upon reviews, so be an enabler! 3

* * *

 _Two months later,_

 _FBI Field Office,_

 _Great Falls, Montana_

Dana Scully prided herself on not being a jealous woman. She didn't envy other people their successes in life, because jealousy, she knew, was a toxic, wasted emotion. When old friends got married, had babies and drifted away, Scully accepted it as the natural order of things. They chose family, she chose career. She didn't covet money, or stratospheric success - the prospect of which dwindled hugely with each year she stayed assigned to The X-Files. But where Mulder was concerned, she struggled to reign her jealousy in. There'd been Phoebe Green, Detective White, Diana Fowley and a whole host of other women who'd fallen over themselves to get close to Mulder over the years, and Scully had come to view them as villains in her own story. The territorial-steak in her sister that Scully had always despaired of, seemed to run through her own veins when it came to Mulder.

Their reassignment to The X-Files had taken them down familiar paths. It had come out of nowhere. There'd been no contact after Mulder stormed out of her apartment, until they had been foisted together by the resurgence of their life's work. She'd been tempted to distance herself from all of it, because being a medical doctor was easier than being Fox Mulder's partner - but when push came to shove, when the decision had to be made, it was always going to be him.

Which was why Tina Richmond felt so much like a villainess, now. Under different circumstances, Scully might not have minded her at all. She wasn't particularly offensive, she was tactile when discussing The X-Files. She was also younger than Scully by five or six years, and totally enamoured by Mulder. Agent Richmond didn't giggle, or fawn over him. She didn't twiddle her hair or bat her eyelids. No, Tina was far too mature and feminist for such nonsense. But to Scully, it was obvious. She let her gaze linger a few seconds too long, subconsciously angled herself towards Mulder at every opportunity, and when he spoke to her, Richmond gave a private smile, as though his praise were a secret she wanted to hold close to her chest.

Richmond was the lead investigator on an abduction case, and she was highly competent. Girly displays of adoration would have been out of character for a woman like Tina, and in some ways, Scully seen herself reflected in the other woman. In some ways. There was no similarity in their height or proportions, for Richmond was five nine in flats and buxom. She wore sports bras to keep her ample chest decently flattened. Scully was certain Mulder had noticed. He would have been blind not to, and it needled Scully.

This was their second debriefing in the field office conference room, led by Richmond. She was confident when she spoke, addressing the other agents in the room with a voice that belonged on the stage of a 1940s cabaret. Husky, alluring. Every man in the room watched her, transfixed. Scully refused to let her annoyance get the better of her. She'd failed in almost every other instance over the years. With Mulder's former flames, her jealousy had been quite blatant. She prayed that age had taught her a valuable skill; to be subtle.

Scully stood at the back of the room, an observer to the main picture. There were six agents presently involved in the search for Holly Frank, the sixteen year old girl who had allegedly been abducted by aliens eight nights ago. Richmond and Scully were the only two women, which left four simpering men in suits, hanging on Richmond's every word. Mulder was no exception. The other three, Bryce, Crooks and Turner were wasting their misplaced energy. Mulder had clawed his way to the top of the pecking order by being aloof, sarcastic and just charming enough. Scully noticed the prolonged glances laid upon him by Richmond, as she talked animatedly about the investigation.

"So we have a body, folks." Richmond pushed the remote control in her hand and _click, slide_ , the projector cast the image of a corpse onto the screen. "Sixteen year old Owen Patricks. He was found this morning a grassy verge on the highway between Riverside and Kingston." _Click, slide_. "He was found with ligature marks on his throat and ankles, and what appears to be puncture wounds on his chest, buttocks, thighs and neck."

Scully raised her hand.

"Yes, Agent?" Richmond wasn't icy, exactly, but it was clear she perceived Scully as some kind of threat to the move she longed to make on Mulder. There was a definite implication that she didn't _like_ Scully, and it was evident in the ever-so-slightly impatient way she addressed her.

"I'd like to perform the autopsy." Richmond blinked in surprise, forcing Scully to elaborate. "I'm also a medical doctor." She kept her gaze trained on the lead agent, but Scully could feel Mulder's gaze upon her. The weight of his attention always seared her, the tingle of her follicles as though his gaze were as tangible as a touch.

"The best slicer and dicer the FBI ever produced," he supplied to the crowd as Scully found herself looking at him.

"Well, the FBI came after medical school, but yeah..." There was a lingering look shared between them, residual affection for one and other, and Scully found her heart seemed to squeeze - there was an ache she couldn't appease, and when Mulder offered her a throwaway smirk, a familiar longing burned in her loins. "So, if it's alright with you, I could head down to the county coroner's office now..."

Richmond wasn't pleased. She chewed the inside of her mouth, regarding Scully with a coolness that made her displeasure perfectly clear. "Fine," she said at last. "Report back with your findings." Scully was about to turn, to exit the suddenly stifling heat of the conference room, when Richmond's next words brought her up short. "Agent Mulder, perhaps you could accompany me to the Frank residence? I'd like to interview the parents."

He nodded in acquiescence, and Scully felt her heart sink. This would be where it all unravelled, wouldn't it? This would be the nail in the coffin of their relationship. The point of no return. Once she walked out this door, Richmond would begin to sow the seeds of... something. Perhaps not a relationship, exactly - that would be difficult, logistically - but at the very least, a booty call. And if he slept with her, Scully knew she would be unable to return to any form of intimacy. Their past and future would be forever tainted. Not that she had a right to feel so possessive of him. It had been her decision to vacate their shared home, their shared life.

She stood frozen, as though she were on the precipice of the old and the new. She could _feel_ the winds of change, as clearly as if they were blowing through the conference room itself.

"Is there a problem, Agent Scully?" Richmond's voice penetrated the fog of her thoughts, forcing Scully to look back. Richmond was cool, Mulder quizzical, everyone else oblivious.

"No problem," Scully replied, yanking open the door. "I'll be in touch."

If there was one thing Dana Scully had always excelled at, it was compartmentalizing her emotions. The stresses of her life were like a range stove, with various saucepans simmering on various heats. Mulder, and everything that surrounded him, had been moved to a low flame, right at the very back of the cooker. He would bubble away there, unobtrusively, whilst she worked on the main pot: her autopsy of Holly Frank's deceased boyfriend, Owen.

She worked on the body, examining the dead boy with the clinical detachment she'd perfected over the years. She photographed him, ran her latex-clad hands over his limbs and, before she could begin a y-incision, Scully felt something odd, beneath the surface of Owen's skin. She felt for a scalpel, nicking his flesh just enough remove the tiny piece of metal. Her heart quickened, because Scully was intimately familiar with just such an implant. By sheer instinct, her free hand reached for the back of her neck - touching the chip just beneath her hairline. The foreign body that somehow kept her cancer free.

Scully held the Owen's implant up to the light, examining it. To the naked eye, it was a piece of shrapnel. When she slipped it under the microscope, the true nature of the chip became apparent. It was as complex and detailed as a computer chip, with intersecting lines running through the miniscule piece of metal. She had a sudden flash back to the day she'd examined her own microchip, in Pendrell's office so many years ago. The removal of it had activated the disease that almost killed her.

She knew Mulder would want to know, and just like that, the saucepan that had been simmering benignly in the background came back to the heat, bubbling fiercely - demanding her attention. Scully dropped the chip into a Petri dish, sealing the lid before snapping off her gloves. She rummaged in the pocket of her lab coat for her cell-phone. Her stomach twisted, and Scully recalled the early days in her partnership with Mulder - when she'd been desperate to impress the aloof agent nicknamed Spooky. Her medical skills were an asset; she'd always known that, and Mulder seemed to find them particularly useful. Those moments when she found something important, when she hit speed-dial, were always tension filled seconds. Tension and excitement, because she longed for the approval of her partner. It was sickeningly needy, a truth she barely admitted to herself, never mind anyone else. But now, as she stood with one hand on her hip, pacing the morgue, Scully realised she _still_ felt the same way.

"Mulder."

"It's me."

"I know." Was it her imagination, or did he sound... cold? "I've got caller ID," he chuckled, as though he needed to clarify his sharp tone.

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Scully reached for the plastic dish, angling it towards herself. The chip slid down, nestling against the rim. "I found something on the dead kid." She detailed her findings, explained the similarities between what she'd discovered and the chip housed in her own body. Mulder was typically noncommittal, making noises in all the right places but not offering any real comment. "What would you like me to do?"

"Finish the autopsy, and bring the evidence with you when we meet back at the field office. Agent Richmond and I are on our way back there now." At least he wasn't calling her by her first name, like he had with all the other women in his life. _Diana, Phoebe, Angela_. Then again, he'd been fucking Scully for years, and he rarely called her Dana. "Talk soon," he said, pulling her from her reverie.

"Yeah, bye." She waited, but the call did not disconnect. The background noise continued, muffled by the sound of his jacket. Scully waited, half expecting to hear her partner's voice through the speaker, but she heard nothing but the disjointed sound of his conversation with Richmond. The harder she listened, the easier it was to piece together what they were saying - as though her hearing became hyper sensitive in her desperation. Richmond was talking.

"I hope this doesn't seem too forward, Agent Mulder but I was wondering if maybe you'd be interested in getting a drink later? With... me?"

Scully braced herself against the autopsy table, a feeling of absolute despair washing through her. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out whatever came next. She felt nauseous, the same stomach churning sickness she'd experienced when she was pregnant with Mulder's child.

"...and whilst I am flattered, Agent Richmond, really... I just couldn't." Mulder's voice pervaded her misery. Scully straightened, flattening her hand against her stomach. "I've been in a very long term relationship with Agent Scully. Fifteen years, actually. Not including the duration of our... erm... platonic partnership. It's something that's just very recently ended and... I'm not ready to admit that it's actually over. So... again, thank you for the invitation but..."

Scully ended the call then, embarrassed by her own eavesdropping. Equally, she felt buoyed by the conversation she'd heard. Fox Mulder had _turned down_ a woman like Tina Richmond.

It was at that moment Scully was forced to admit it wasn't over between them - and if she was honest, it was unlikely it ever would be.

* * *

More?


	4. Chapter 4

**Title** : The Way Back to You

 **Rating** : T, but eventually MA.

 **Category** : MSR, Angst,

 **Spoilers** : Anything from the series and movies.

 **Disclaimer** : Still Chris Carter's. You'd think by now I would have accepted it, but I haven't.

I am not sure the interest is still around for X-Files stories, as the feedback has been sparse - so please, if this is something you want to read, let me know!

* * *

They had stayed in their fair share of crappy motels so by the standard of preceding accommodations, Great Falls Motel didn't break the top twenty of the worst. The beds were clean, the bathrooms scrubbed and free of blackening mold. There were no mints on the pillows or complimentary bottles of shampoo, but the Wi-Fi worked and there were more than two channels on the television. A positive result, after hours bending over the cadaver on her table.

Scully ached, head to toe, but throughout the afternoon she'd been somehow able to overlook the pain, buoyed by the conversation she'd overheard. They might not have discussed much of anything in the past two months, but Mulder wasn't over _them_ , and Scully's misery seemed to subside momentarily.

She stood beneath the weak spray of the shower head, washing off the stench of death and formaldehyde. Scully lathered up the shower gel she'd packed in the rush to catch the plane to Montana, and it was only as the suds and water sluiced over her body that she realised it was one of Mulder's; a zesty citrus smell, that when she breathed in, reminded her of Sunday mornings. She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to the cool white tiles of the shower wall, letting the memories come unencumbered. Sundays were her favourite - lie in days, when she would half-doze on their bed, whilst Mulder showed and shaved in the en-suite bathroom. This smell encompassed those mornings, and she found her body responding accordingly.

Mulder would seek her out, freshly showered and smelling of limes. He would nuzzle into her, rousing her from slumber, awakening her body with his knowing touch. She breathed in a shuddering breath now, filling her lungs with the smell of him. Months had done nothing to dampen her desire for him, and Scully was beginning to suspect she would never _get over_ Mulder. How could she? She'd wanted him from the very moment she'd laid eyes upon him, young and paranoid, in the basement office way back in '93. He'd been sarcastic and cocky, full of self-assuredness and arrogance - but God, he'd been so damn sexy. Age had only heightened his charisma, the sex appeal that seemed to ooze from him like a pheromone.

Scully rinsed off, cranking the shower tap until the water ceased. Drying, she slid into a bathrobe and tied her damp hair back. If she ate quickly, she might have time to type up her autopsy report before bed.

The afternoon had been uneventful. She'd returned to the field office, relayed her findings, listened to Mulder and Richmond as they filled everyone in on their meeting with the girl's parents. The other agents had uncovered precisely nothing, and it seemed the only two people _really_ interested in the mysterious chip was Mulder and Scully. As usual. Regular folk didn't want to entangle themselves in the messiness of the paranormal. It involved paperwork, sceptical denouncements from superiors, and perpetuated the kind of reputation that could follow an agent through their entire career. The microchip had been foisted into the laps of Mulder and Scully, and they would deal with it however their expertise deemed necessary.

Back at the motel, they had parted ways. Mulder to his room, number 9 and Scully to hers, number 2. Their age old habit of arranging adjoining rooms seemed to have become one of those awkward memories, back when things were so comfortable it was second nature. Now, every moment, every word, every glance was analysed as being potentially inappropriate. Scully hated it. She longed for the comfort of having him just a single wall away, the sound of his television in the middle of the night. Hell, she missed having him in her room, in her bed, _in her_.

He knocked on her door. She knew it was his by the signature rap, tap, tap.

Frazzled, she adjusted her robe. "Come in, Mulder."

He wore jeans, and she wondered if it was intentional. Mulder in jeans was one of her weakest spots, an aphrodisiac she'd always been powerless to resist. The faded denim was snug against his thighs, stretching the age old fabric. She knew how his backside looked in jeans. She'd spent enough time looking, and during one of their many post-coital pillow-talks, Scully knew she'd admitted as much to him. He'd chuckled bashfully at the time, surprised that his eternally reserved Scully could be such a little pervert. Now, it was almost as though he were using this intimate knowledge as weaponry against her.

"Hi," he said. He extended his hand, offering her a crumpled paper bag. "Cheese burger and fries," he told her. "Extra pickles, no relish. Just how you like it." She accepted his offering.

"Thanks," she said. "Aren't you eating?"

"Oh, I already ate," said Mulder, closing the door. He slid the chain into a place - a lifelong habit he'd never been able to shake.

"With Agent Richmond?" Scully asked. She tried to stop the words, but by the time she realised, they had been flung out into the space between them. Mulder blinked, his brows drawing together. "You forget to end the call earlier," Scully felt compelled to explain. "I heard Richmond ask you out on a date." To his credit, Mulder had the decency to look contrite. Not that he needed to, she supposed. He was perfectly entitled to date, if he wanted to.

"Never took you for a dirty little eavesdropper, Scully." Mulder sat on the edge of her bed, uninvited - and she decided she quite liked such a gesture of familiarity. "But if you were listening, you would have heard me turn her down."

She sat too, opening the fast-food meal her partner had kindly brought. She was starving, and his procurement of food, just as she liked it, was the only thing Scully needed in that moment. Sinking her teeth into the cheeseburger, she chewed thoughtfully. It was almost better than sex, but then she was sitting in the same space and Fox Mulder, and just the act of him breathing was enough to remind her that _nothing_ was better than sex - with him at least.

She squirmed, crossing her legs. "Yeah, I heard."

"Hmm." Mulder didn't say anything else. Instead, he regarded the laptop sitting on her bed. "What's your thoughts on the implant? Alien tech?"

"We'll need to send it to Quantico to be sure." Scully couldn't wholly focus on anything but the food she was eating. The last time she'd ate was that morning, and her breakfast had consisted of half a bran muffin and a cup of terrible coffee. "I looked at it under a microscope though. It's complex." He was staring at her, a tell-tale smile pulling at the corners of his lips. It was a loving, affectionate smile - the kind Mulder never really knew he was giving. She'd caught glimpses of it on occasions. "What?" she asked, self conscious.

He sobered, shaking his head. "You've cheese on your face," he said, clearing his throat.

She wiped at the corner of her mouth, unembarrassed. The time for being cutesy feminine had long since passed. He'd seen every part of her, bruised, bloodied, starving, orgasmic. Melted cheese was nothing in comparison. "Thanks."

"I should also say if you don't close your robe, I'll be in pain for hours."

She glanced down at her chest, where the folds of her bathrobe had traitorously slid apart to reveal the curve of her breast. Scully flushed, clasping the fabric in a fist. She had never been so chaste, at least not in the last fifteen years. It seemed silly now, after everything that had transpired, to be uncomfortable with nudity now. Of course it wasn't nudity, it was everything their bodies represented: lust, desire, passion. The good things. The things that made them whole, in times of unqualified despair. In the months after they'd given William up for adoption, Scully had wanted - _needed_ \- sex three, sometimes four, times per day. Lovemaking provided a release for everything that weighed ever so heavily upon her heart.

"Actually, I have a whole memory bank. It doesn't matter." Mulder made a pained sound. "This platonic thing, it's so much harder than I imagined. Pun intended." He adjusted himself.

"It is for me too," Scully admitted. She dropped the remains of her burger into the bag, tossing the whole lot into the trash can. "It's not as though I have forgotten everything, Mulder." God, there were some memories it would take a lifetime to extinguish. "But for this... _partnership_ to work again, we need to ensure the boundaries are in place." She continued to clasp at her robe, like a frightened school girl.

Mulder leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. He didn't look at her, but instead fixed his gaze on the blank wall. "The partnership worked just fine last time." His words were not intended to be analysed, just his own idle musings. "It worked fine for two years, actually." He scrubbed his face with his hands, and Scully heard that titillating rasp of his stubble upon his skin. She swallowed hard, pushing down the memory of how those rough, prickly hairs felt against her neck, her breasts, her belly... "We went straight into a new case, after the first time we..."

"Things are different," she interrupted, desperate to still the wayward beating of her heart. Mulder was _never_ logical - about anything. He always leapt to the least plausible solution or theory in every single situation - yet he was choosing _now_ to be pragmatic? "We have a lot of baggage, now. A lot of history."

He turned his head sharply, looking over his shoulder at her. "More baggage than cancer? Abduction? Losing our son? More baggage than the risk of losing each other every time we went out into the field?" His eyes were hot, angst burning in his irises in the way it used to when he was fired up about a case. Those were the nights he would take her hardest, against walls, over desks, on the floor, in the shower. Those were nights of ruthless intent, punishing lovemaking that left her aching and so deeply satisfied. It took every single bit of her resolve to break eye contact now.

"Mulder..."

"Do you remember how much you needed me then?" He forced her gaze back to his, just with the gravity of his words. "That night I found you on my apartment floor?"

"It's not something I'll forget."

He stood, a jerky reflexive movement, as though he needed to spend pent-up energy. He began pacing, bed to wall and back. She recognized this as a classic trait of Mulder's. "I thought you were dead, dammit. There's been too many times I thought you were dead." He stopped short, staring at her. "That bastard, with his psychological manipulation. Getting into my head. Your head. 'Agent Scully's already in love'," he mimicked, his tone thick with mocking. "Fucking Padgett."

"That part was true," Scully replied. "Mulder, I think we should focus on the case. You know... if this new arrangement has any chance of working out."

He was as rigid as a mannequin, not even blinking as he stared at her. Then, as though someone had twisted a key on his back, he sprung to life. "You're right. Good night, Scully." And just like that, he stormed out for the second time in months.

It used to be acceptable, when Mulder stormed out in a temper. She used to be able to chase after him, to rant and rave, slam doors, throw insults. Not deep, wounding insults - just enough repartee to keep their relationship passionate. It never lasted long, before anger always dissolved into desire. Now, Scully was seething because she was supposed to sit passively, accepting of his petulance. Well, she simply wasn't made of the right stuff!

She held her robe together, flinging open her bedroom door in an attempt to storm across the parking lot, to his room. As she did, she collided with him. Mulder was in the process of returning to her room, and their bodies slammed together. He grasped her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. There was anger in his eyes, as Scully knew there would be in hers. Hurt, anxiousness, desperation - all the things that constantly gnawed at their souls. He inhaled a sharp, steadying breath before releasing her. "This sucks, Scully."

She sighed. "I know."

"I still love you. I... I can't _not_ love you." With the heartbreakingly tentative touch she'd grown to covet, Mulder slid her hair behind her ear. His open palm caressed her cheek for a few seconds longer than necessary, his thumb stroking the curve of her cheekbone.

"Mulder, you know I love you, too."

"Yeah, I know." She heard the razor-sharp edge of bitterness in his tone.

It was beginning to rain, fat, slanting drops that pattered noisily on the cars, on the roof of the motel. Scully stepped backwards, into the relative warmth of her room. Mulder followed, because it was impractical to leave now. As though the universe were conspiring against her, a complex ploy to keep them bound together for another few minutes.

"I'm sorry for every time I have alienated you," said Mulder, easing the door shut. "You have never deserved that." He pressed his back against the door, maintaining a respectable distance. Her body still tingled from where his hands had been on her shoulders, his skin warm through the fabric of her bathrobe.

"Mulder..."

"Yeah, look... I know it's a too-little too-late situation. I know. I had years to rectify it, but..." His eyes searched hers, roving her face. "Just... _but_."

"Yeah," Scully sighed. "So many buts." She sat on the bed again. Outside, the rain pummelled nosily and it was the kind of inclement weather she used to love - back when things were good. For awhile, they were _normal_. Fox and Dana, although they never called themselves that - they and somehow shed their FBI agent, alien-hunting, conspiracy-revealing personas. For awhile, at least. It seemed as though this was where they were always meant to be: holed up in a crappy motel, at the back of the country, solving riddles. Normal wasn't in their remit. They _sucked_ at being normal.

"Would it have made a difference if I'd married you?" Mulder shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

Scully felt stricken. "Seriously, Mulder?"

"It's just... I'm trying to make sense of it all. I didn't _change_ , Scully. I am the same man - more or less - that you met in the basement. Is it something I did? Something I didn't do? Did you want me to change? Did-"

"Stop, Mulder." She was beginning to feel exhausted. The constant back and forth, with no resolution.

"I'm struggling without you," he admitted, and she regarded him fully, with open eyes, for the first time in months. He looked tired, worn down.

"This decision wasn't to hurt you." She raked her fingers through her hair, and caught the nostalgic scent of zest and lime. Mulder. The memories distracted her, made her whole heart ache - a physical pain, deep and yearning. "Maybe you should go out with Agent Richmond. Maybe... socialising will help-"

"Scully, that's enough!" He exploded with the kind of frenetic energy she used to both love and fear. Angry Mulder was passionate, rough, needy Mulder. "There's no point in raking over this again and again. A decision needs to be made, for the sake of both our sanities - and I'm making that decision now." Scully's stomach twisted and knotted with anxiousness. She wasn't ready for him to throw in the towel. No, she wanted to claw back whatever remained between them, to put it under lock and key. "You have my word, the discussions are over. You've got _Agent_ Mulder, but..." He regarded her sadly, with a lifetime of pain evident in his eyes. "That's it. I can't walk around forever like a seeping, open wound." He turned towards the door, not with anger or passion, but with quiet resignation. "Because sooner or later, I'll end up septic."

He opened the door and left, closing it gently. She wished he had slammed it into its frame, making the motel shake beneath the weight of his anger. The fact he was wholly resigned was worse than anything. It was a death knell, tolling to mark the demise of their romance.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** The Way Back to You

 **Rating:** T for now, MA later.

 **Category** : MSR, Angst

 **Disclaimer** : The show and characters belong to Chris Carter and various affiliates.

 **A/N** : Thanks to those of you that have taken the time to review. It really means a lot, to get a notification.

* * *

 _One Month Later_

"Scully?"

She lifted her head from the mountain of reports on her desk, blinking through the eye-strain to focus on Mulder at his desk. "Yeah?"

"I've decided to sell the house."

Of all the things she expected him to say in that moment, declaring his intention to sell off their shared home was not a considered option. For a long few seconds, she didn't really understand. "Oh," she replied at last.

"Yeah, you know, for work. It's just more practical to be closer to DC." He looked pained, as though he were breaking the news to her that her dog had died. "I'm sure you have other things you'll want to pack up." He rolled a pencil between his fingers, back and forth. "I can make arrangements to be out, if you want."

She glared at him, hating that he had decided to take such a painfully formal approach to the splitting of their assets. Like an acrimonious divorce. "That's hardly necessary," she replied coolly. "I'll come by in a few days."

True to his word, subsequent to that night in Montana, Mulder hadn't mentioned their relationship again. He was polite, cordial, even. He made fun of her, cracked jokes, fell into the easiness of their relationship of old. If he felt in any way brooding about _them_ , he'd mastered the art of appearing indifferent. Sometimes it felt nice, to be back to the way they were. It was easy to remember how their dynamic had turned heads at the bureau, because Mulder and Scully were simpatico. It was a dynamic that worked, like a well-oiled machine.

Sometimes, Scully felt the frisson was still there - ever simmering beneath the surface of the facade Mulder had imposed. Two weeks ago, during an excursion into an underground sewer tunnel, their bodies had been forced together in the cramped quarters. Plundering through the unromantic environment, it seemed like the least likely place for the remaining embers of their romance to flare up. But as she'd manoeuvred through the concrete tube, sliding past him towards the metal ladder towards escape, Scully had felt his erection against the small of her back, and just like that, she'd been swamped in her own desire.

Then, without a word, he had turned away - and that was it. Never to be mentioned or discussed.

She wanted to know if he'd lain in their once shared bed that night, stroking himself to climax at the memory of their bodies so close together. Mulder would have wanted to take her, right there amongst the pungent sludge and grime. She knew him better than anyone in the world - knew his libido. And he knew hers. He would have known _she_ masturbated to a dissatisfying orgasm that night.

"Obviously we will split the-"

"Mulder?"

"Yes, Scully?"

She stared at him, through the hazy gloom of the basement office. "This is a discussion we don't need to have. I have no worries you will withhold assets from me. Please, don't sully things with needless platitudes." She was angry at him, because up until this moment, her afternoon had been perfectly pleasant. Their silence was amicable, reminiscent of the old days.

"Fine," he said, returning to his work.

* * *

Scully found it strange, returning to the home they'd shared for so many years. It was the same, but irreversibly different. Her smell wasn't present any longer; the ever lingering scent of her perfume, clinging to fabrics and drapes. Although some of the knick-knacks chosen by her remained where they'd been placed, she felt an odd sense of apathy towards them. They didn't belong to her now, any more than Fox Mulder belonged to her. Truthfully, she couldn't think of many things she wanted to salvage from the house before it went on the market.

Perhaps a handful of medical journals, the odd photographs ferreted away somewhere. Everything else was part of the wreckage, and she had no desire to loot through the devastation of their relationship.

Scully stood in the living room, thinking of the years they'd spent here. Winter nights, draped in heavy blankets, watching television. There'd been laughter, once. She didn't truly know what happened, except that Mulder seemed to almost grow... discontented with domesticity. The moment he was claimed by paranormal obsessions, she began to lose him - piece by piece.

He wasn't home. He'd mentioned casually his intention to swim a few laps of the FBI swimming pool, but it was an excuse to be absent. He had no desire to watch his formal lover pick through the detritus of their union, and frankly Scully was relieved. Coming here was harder than she'd imagined it would be, and from the second the front door clicked shut behind her, she felt a suffocating need to be done with it all. Maybe selling the house was the best thing, after all. It wasn't as though those moments of happiness could be reclaimed. There was no rewind button. Only forward.

She shifted the empty box she'd carried with her, wandering room to room in search of anything worth taking. Scully paused at Mulder's office, pushing the door open with the tips of her fingers. She expected to see the walls, covered in newspaper clippings and documentation of the unexplained - but the walls were blank, and freshly painted. Boxes were piled on his desk and on the floor, filled with files and books. There was a reed oil-diffuser on the window sill, so out of place in the midst of Mulder's crusade. The air smelled musty, with an underlying hint of roses. Perhaps he didn't want to put off potential buyers, hence why he'd packed everything away.

Scully eased the door shut, continuing onward. She collected the odd personal belonging along the way: books, photographs, a keep-sake silver trinket handed down from her grandmother. Everything else brought back painful memories. No, she thought; not painful. The worst thing about this house was that it _wsasn't_ painful memories. The memories were good, happy, contented. They were a glimpse into a life of normalcy that had been snatched away.

As she prepared to leave, Scully heard Mulder's car pull up outside. She stood by the window, watching as he hefted his gym bag from the passenger seat. He slammed the door, and hesitated. He didn't see her, spying from behind the glass. It was dark outside, and she'd kept the lights off. Watching him like this, unencumbered, she ached with longing. He'd been hers, once - and she'd left, because the man who'd been with her for twenty odd years had never been able to give himself to her _fully_. That's what it was, she decided. For awhile, Mulder had been completely hers, and she'd been unable to adjust to the unexpected distance. Mulder was not the unfaithful type, but the bottomless abyss of the unexplained was his mistress, and he was powerless to resist her.

The front door slammed.

"You here, Scully?"

"I'm upstairs."

"I'll leave you to it."

Scully descended to the ground floor. "I've just finished," she said, holding the box beneath her arm.

He glanced down, at the handful of items littering the bottom. "You didn't take much," he remarked.

"No, I suppose not." She counted six things in total. Six - in a house of thousands.

"I spoke to the realtor, and there's two families interested already." Mulder folded his arms. He smelled of chlorine, and his hair was still damp. She thought about how it would feel to rake her fingers through the strands. The back of Mulder's neck was ticklish; he liked when her nails whispered over the baby-fine hairs there. "So I guess I should start packing too, and look for a new apartment." The conversation was stilted, nothing like the easiness of their time together in the office.

"Yes, I suppose so."

"I was thinking about Alexandria. Since we seem to be going back in time, it's a fitting choice." He smiled, but the light reached nowhere near his eyes.

"I better go," Scully said, because the painful awkwardness made her head and heart ache. "See you tomorrow?"

"Bright and early G-Woman." She smiled at that. "Do you need help with the box?" Mulder asked.

"I think I can manage all four kilos of this, thanks." Her smile was playful, but Mulder's eyes clouded. She saw the shutters come down around him, and she was perplexed. How could such a throwaway comment cause him to retreat? "Alright, good night."

"Night, Scully." He followed her to the front door, closing it behind her. He didn't wait to watch her depart, and something in his mannerisms seemed... _off_. The lamp came on inside the living room, and his silhouette moved around the room - as though he'd forgotten she was there already, before she'd even started the engine. It was beginning to feel that the biggest enigma in the world, right now, was Mulder himself.

* * *

 _One Month Later_

"Hold on, Mulder!" Scully screamed, dropping to her knees. His hands scrambled through broken floorboards, searching for traction. His fingers slipped, and before she could reach him, he tumbled three storeys to the basement of the abandoned warehouse. His body made a sickening thud on the ground, and when she finally reached the gaping hole in the wooden boards, she saw him lying in a crumpled heap far below. "Mulder! Are you alright?"

"No," he replied, his voice pained and muffled. "I think I've broken my rib."

"Shit," Scully breathed. "Wait there, Mulder; I'm coming down." She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the decade's worth of dust clinging to her suit. It seemed to take an outrageous length of time to locate the stairs. She raced to descend to the basement as quickly as possible, but when she reached the bottom step, the door was locked. "Fucking hell," she growled, unholstering her weapon. Trust Mulder to get injured. He'd probably lost his gun in the process, too.

Scully fired off two rounds and the door swung open. She found him in the floor, huddled over himself. "I'm hurt, Scully."

She fell to her knees, pulling his shirt from his pants. Her fingers traced the nuances of his ribs, and he hissed in pain. "We need to get you to a hospital, Mulder. You're so lucky it didn't puncture your lungs." Scully removed her cell-phone to call an ambulance, but there was no signal in the dingy basement. "Can you get up?"

"I can try," he murmured, accepting her hand. Scully hefted him to his feet, slipping beneath his arm to brace his body against hers. "It wouldn't be tradition, if I didn't succumb to an injury." His breath fanned across her forehead as he huffed through the pain, stumbling towards the stairwell. "At least I didn't land on ectoplasm."

Scully didn't smile. She never saw the humour in watching her partner get hurt. One day, she might not be around to come to the rescue. "Take the stairs slowly," she commanded as they ascended to the first floor. "We need to get you to the hospital."

Mulder made an impatient _tsk_ sound with his tongue. "Does this mean I'm going to be holed up, out of action?"

"For a few weeks at least, yes," Scully replied as they reached the top of the stairs. Somewhere below, something growled and they both froze.

"Did you hear that?" Mulder asked, his gaze locking with hers. They'd come here in search of the so-called Devil Dog, a wolf-like creature with glowing yellow eyes. There'd been rumours the animal had been living in the abandoned warehouse, coming out to scavenge for food. It's delicacy of choice was human beings, and the Devil Dog was being blamed for a spate of murders in Maryland. Until this moment, Scully had believed the whole thing to be hokum.

"It was probably nothing," she replied, holding her gun close to her thigh anyway. "But just in case... let's get a move on." She let him hobble forward, walking backwards to make sure at least one of them was facing any potential enemy that might clamber out from the bowels of the old building. There was a faint, distant rumble that might have been another growl, but otherwise - nothing. A fleeting glimpse of something that _might_ be paranormal, but never any solid evidence.

Mulder had driven the car to the site, because despite the many arguments about his blatant chauvinism, he still insisted on being the one behind the wheel. He was in no state to drive now, and Scully helped him into the passenger seat. She thought about being petulant and insisting he take himself to hospital, if driving was so damn important to him. But he'd gone pale, and he wore a mask of pain.

The nearest hospital was ten miles away, and they barely spoke for the duration of the journey. She asked if he was doing okay, he replied in the affirmative. His arm cradled his ribcage, pressing against the fracture, and she found his posture mirrored another time he'd been injured: when mauled by zombies on New Year's Eve 1999. The night he kissed her in her public for the first time. Not in private, because that had come as she'd sobbed in his arms, seconds after almost having her heart ripped out.

She escorted him to the emergency room, pulled rank with her federal ID and got him rushed through to see a doctor. Government status was good for some things, she supposed.

Even with jumping the line, Mulder spent four hours in the hospital. X-rays confirmed what Scully had guessed when she'd checked him out herself: that his fifth and sixth ribs on the right side had snapped. Treatment was a prescription for mind-numbingly strong painkillers, and weeks of doing very little. Work was out of the question, as was exercise.

"Looks like you'll be flying solo at the office for awhile," Mulder said as she walked with him back to the car. The skies over Maryland were darkening as dusk settled. It was a cloudless early-summer night and the air smelled of freshly cut grass and pollen.

"It looks like it," replied Scully, feeling morose. She hated long days spent holed up in the basement office alone. Even worse, there was the prospect of a temporarily assigned partner, the very notion of which made her heart race with something akin to panic. Scully was a creature of habit and familiarity.

"I'll take you home."

Their house had sold quickly, without fuss. The family liked it, paid upfront and rushed the paperwork. The last Scully had heard, Mulder had packed up and moved. To where, she wasn't exactly sure. It never came up. It was a topic that bordered on personal, and they'd been studiously avoiding such conversations.

"Oh, um, just drop me off at The Georgetown." He struggled to clip his seatbelt into place, and she felt as though he were firmly avoiding eye contract in the mean time.

"The hotel?" she clarified, starting the engine.

"Yeah. I haven't officially moved into my new place yet. It's undergoing some renovation works at the minute." He looked so lonely, so utterly helpless that Scully hated herself for being the one responsible for his imposed solitude. The thought of him recuperating from his injury in friendless anonymity of a hotel was a bitter pill to swallow. "Stop it, Scully." The effects of his medication made his words seem less crisp, like blurred lines.

"Stop what?"

"The self-flagellation. I'll be fine."

She drove through the evening traffic, to her own apartment in Georgetown. It was only when she parked at the curb-side that Mulder noticed. He squinted up through the darkness at her apartment building, frowning. He was high on pain meds - she recognized the signs. There was no way he'd be able to take care of himself.

"You're staying with me," she said.


End file.
